Of Punishment and Many Shades of Red
by barricade girl
Summary: No one is ever untouchable, as is soon learned by one Mark Cohen. In which there is death, what might be considered insanity, and many, many mentions of the colour red.


Disclaimer: I (as we all know) am not the one who created/owns these characters. They are the sole property of Mr. Larson and his family.

**A/N: So… My first attempt at a RENT-fic (please don't kill me!). I'm not entirely sure about the characterisation or the originality of the plot, and I'm desperately in need of a beta (I love grammar, but I seem to doubt my skills in using it, despite what everyone else says). If you have any suggestions on how to improve the characterisation, my writing style (which is in need of some serious help), or any other aspect of this piece, I would greatly appreciate it (so feed-back of any kind is greatly encouraged)! (I'm also sorry for any issues with the spacing between words... the site keeps deleting my spaces for some reason)**

Of Punishment and Many Shades of Red

For as long as he can remember, Mark Cohen has worn red.

He's not sure why, really, he just always has. There are pictures at his parents' house – a house that, mind you, he hasn't been back to in about seven years – of him as a baby, as a child, and as a shy and reluctant teenager, and he's always in a red shirt. Or red corduroy pants. Or a red jacket. Or red pyjamas. Or even red shoes, for God's sake, just always something red. The colour has become a part of him over the years, and he doesn't really know why.

It might have something to do with the fact that red is everything that Mark dreams of being. It's bright, it's vibrant, it's out-going… _(as if a colour can be out-going… who is he kidding with this philosophical crap?)_ But most of all, it just seems alive, alive and real and actually a part of the damn world. And Mark is none of that. He probably was, once, back in Scarsdale. Back in Scarsdale, where everything was happy, and Bobby could take a walk at night just to say hello to Sam and not have to worry about Mike mugging him for money for drugs, booze, whores, and God only knows what else as soon as he rounded the corner. In Scarsdale, everything was perfect – or at least as close to perfect as Mark's life had ever been, much as he hated to admit it _(God, how he had hated that town and its suffocating closeness)_. Mark Cohen's life was not ever going to be like that again, and it hadn't been since the day he left Scarsdale and all its perfect conformity and neighbourliness.

Mark was a different person in Scarsdale, he is sure of that now. He had no knowledge of pain or suffering or real problems of the world (beyond the mandatory education, aided with brightly coloured flyers and parent/child guides, given to all students once they entered the sixth grade, of course). He was probably happy in Scarsdale. Not that he wasn't happy when he first came to New York, that city where the air was thick and heavy with the smell of dreams and promises whispered in the wind and hope. When he first moved in with Roger and Benny and Collins, when he first started dating Maureen, yes he was happy, no doubt about that. But now that time had passed, long ago, and there was no going back to it now. It's rather hard to do that, Mark Cohen thinks to himself, when half of your little "family" is dead.

For it is true. The family, Mark's support and the ones that he supported, has fallen apart; it has broken suddenly, like the blue porcelain vase that an eight year-old Mark smashed into a thousand tiny pieces when he bumped into its stand while playing hide-and-seek with his sister. Just like that vase, the family's never coming back. And just like when the vase broke, Mark feels once again that he is about to face the great and long-building wrath of some higher authority. He was grounded for the first time of his life that day. An entire month of being locked in solitary confinement, coupled with a horrible beating from his father after dinner _(Jesus, that beating still gives him nightmares, still makes him shudder as though severely cold, when he thinks about it… seventeen freaking years, and he still can't get past a beating that was given to him as a child; God, he's pathetic)_, was what he got that day. It brought him down from the belief that his parents were the most perfect people in the world; it brought him down from the thoughts that his life was what every person envied, what every person wanted for themselves; and it brought him down from the dreams in which he had concocted that because he was so happy, so wonderfully in love with life, he couldn't be touched or hurt or harmed in any way. God, was he wrong. He was a fool as well. He had let himself be lulled back into the belief that he was untouchable when he had come to the city, when he had finally broken free of Scarsdale and his parents and his horribly suppressing childhood. And now, he was being knocked down from his pedestal again. This time, however, it wasn't just him who was suffering from it.

Angel _(sweet, lovable Angel, who had always given him that much-needed reason to smile)_ was the first to go. Her death was hard, not only for the reason that Mark lost a great friend, but also for the fact that it was now undeniable that soon he would be forced go through this with Mimi, Collins, Roger, and God only knows who else. Still, life moved on, and Mark continued as usual. Wearing red jackets that barely fit his scrawny frame properly, filming nearly everything he saw, and laughing with Roger about his own stupid faults, all things of normalcy continued to thrive in Mark's life. And life, at that point, seemed to be good.

Mimi _(lovely, energetic Mimi, who was beautiful in so many ways that Mark could never be)_ was the next to pass. The time she had spent living on the streets had weakened her to a state from which she could not recover easily, and she died about three months after the night where she first saw Roger since he had left for Santa Fe. Roger took her death the hardest, withdrawing into a state of silence and solitude that had not been seen in him since immediately following April's suicide. He stayed like that for four months, never acknowledging anyone. Even Mark, who fed him and made sure he took his meds and helped keep him alive, was ignored. The filmmaker never had a chance to share grieving the loss of Mimi with anyone, as Collins had left for another shot at MIT, Maureen and Joanne decided it was best to keep out of Roger's way while he was in that state, and Roger stayed in the silent state for all the time that Mark would have needed to cope properly. Mark never really recovered from Mimi's death for the simple reason that he had no one to go to, no one to lean on. His red jacket, so bright and happy-looking, wasn't worn quite as often as it was before. About twice a week, in fact, it would lay forgotten on the floor, a silent reminder of happier days that would never come again.

Collins _(smart, philosophical Collins, who seemed to understand all of life's puzzles and the inner-workings of the entire universe)_ died next. About a year after Mimi's passing, Collins was entered into the hospital. He never checked out again, but instead died in the bed after two long weeks of treatments that did nothing for him. After Collins died, Mark didn't do anything for three days. Collins was the first friend he had really had in the city, someone who Mark respected and admired, and he was gone. And now it was Roger taking care of Mark for a change. Roger who fed Mark, gave him a shoulder to (silently, always silently) cry on, and made sure he at least got some sleep during those three days. When the filmmaker came out of his trance, he was not the same. His eyes did not have the same spark of life that had so prominently shown itself not a month before. His voice did not carry that same optimistic tone, and his thoughts (when he chose to share them) were a thousand times darker than before. And, choosing instead to dress in sombre blacks and greys, Mark didn't ever wear red (that wonderful, energetic, and happy colour that had once adorned his body always) again.

Roger died last night. His best friend, his brother (for in truth, he was, even if not by blood), his support and the one he supported, was gone. Gone and never coming back. Roger did not die of the AIDS, as did everyone else. No, Roger was mugged and shot in the alley right beside the apartment building that housed the loft. Mark had rushed down, camera in tow, at the sound of gunfire; he had stopped short, however, when he saw Roger leaning up against the wall, Roger with crimson blood all over his hands and front, Roger smiling weakly at him. He had held Roger as his friend died, knowing that the wound was fatal and yet wishing it was not. After the musician had taken his final breath, Mark had stayed there and held him for what felt like seconds and hours and minutes and years, all rolled into one. He had held Roger's body until Maureen had come and gently pried him away. She had somehow guided him upstairs, divested him of his jacket, and scrubbed his hands and arms until the blood was gone (while wearing gloves, of course). She had taken him downstairs after packing a bag with some of his clothes and she had loaded him into Joanne's car. She stayed in the backseat with him, holding him and stroking his hair as he sobbed and shivered against her, while Joanne took the three of them back to the apartment she and Maureen shared.

Mark Cohen didn't get any sleep that night, just as he hasn't in the past two weeks. He also hasn't eaten, said, or drunk anything (beyond the one cup of water practically forced down his throat by Maureen). He has been completely unresponsive, completely locked up in his thoughts, completely like Roger had been directly following April and Mimi's deaths. He continues in this state, shut inside his mind. He wears nothing but black, a colour which makes him look even paler than the chalk white he has recently become. He has not touched anything red (or really coloured in any way) since the night of Roger's death, when both he and his friend were bathed in scarlet. Mark does not go to Roger's funeral when the date arrives. He stays at Maureen and Joanne's apartment, curled up in a little ball on the couch and staring at the wall. The filmmaker is rocking back and forth ever-so-slightly, which is more movement than he has exhibited in days. Mark has heard people come in and out for the past three weeks, but he has done nothing in response. People, meaning his friends and family and assorted doctors who have come to check up on him, are beginning to wonder if he will ever come out of this state. Even Mark truly doesn't know.

"_Take care of yourself, Marky."_

Roger's last words to him are continually running through Mark's head now. It has now been about a week since Roger's funeral, which means that tonight exactly marks three weeks since the musician died. Mark has continued to remain in his catatonic state. Tonight, however, there is something different. He has never relived Roger's last moments before; now that he has, even though it was just once on the random loop of memories that have been playing through his mind, he cannot escape them, cannot escape Roger's final words. _"Take care of yourself, Marky."_ And now Mark realises that he has not been doing as Roger told him to. He has let himself become nothing more than a shell rather than a living human being. And he hates himself for it. He hates himself for doing this to Maureen and Joanne and Roger (or rather, the memory of Roger). He hates himself for betraying his friend by not following the musician's instructions. But most of all, he hates the sick knowledge that his friends have been punished with death so that he can be reminded that he is not untouchable by the forces that drive the world; it is this thought that now continues to run through his mind. A light takes hold of Mark's eyes, but it is not one that was seen before Roger died. Instead, it is a glow of crazed determination, a flame that shows the desire to do nothing but complete one fateful task. Mark uncurls himself and begins to walk across the apartment on shaky legs that have not been used in well over two weeks. He pads over to the kitchen, stumbling with every other step, and begins to rummage through drawers. After about five minutes of searching, he finds it. Carefully, gently, he lifts the knife, all shining silver with threads of gold which intertwine to form a pattern on the handle, from the drawer. The blade gleams and shines and seems to whisper in the kitchen's warm light. Mark takes the knife with him as he crosses to the bathroom. He closes and locks the oak door behind him once his feet leave smooth and creamy carpet and touch the cool, ivory tile of the washroom floor.

Mark Cohen has become nothing more than a ghost, a pale and cold phantom who is already dead to the world. He has realised this tonight, and sees it even more clearly in the bathroom mirror once the light has been switched on (after a bit of stumbling and fumbling in the dark). The silver blade of the knife flashes and shines even more brilliantly, pulling Mark's attention back to it and his original purpose. As he stares, entranced, at the gleam of the knife, Mark's mind again drifts to back to Roger's last words. _"Take care of yourself, Marky." _He gives a great, shuddering sigh and raises the knife, its blade glinting again. "I am, Roger. I'm taking away the pain," he whispers. At the same time, the blade is plunged deep into his wrist and dragged in jagged lines across alabaster skin. Mark groans as warm blood wells up and flows over his arm, bathing and covering the appendage in a deep crimson. The process is repeated with his other arm, but not before Mark has fallen onto his knees. As blood continues to rush from his veins, Mark drops the knife (its blade covered in ruby red as it flashes and shines in a sick, silvery way) but remains in his kneeling position. Before two minutes have passed, however, he has fallen over and succumbed to the all-encompassing darkness; he has entered a sleep from which he will never wake. And Mark Cohen is once again adorned in red.


End file.
